


Masquerade

by astudyinrose



Series: Hidden in Silence [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Domestic, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff and Angst, Frottage, Johnlock Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Oral Sex, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, POV Third Person, Pre and Post Reichenbach, Reichenbach Angst, Reichenbach Theory, Sexual Content, established johnlock during reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-25
Updated: 2013-10-25
Packaged: 2017-12-30 03:48:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1013727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astudyinrose/pseuds/astudyinrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock have only been together for a few weeks when Sherlock receives a text from Moriarty, simultaneously with his raid on Tower Hill. As the events of the Reichenbach Fall unfold, Sherlock begins to realize that he will have to distance himself from John again to keep him safe from Moriarty and to give them a chance at a future.</p><p>[Told with Riechenbach Fall canon intact and some additional/Johnlock scenes interspersed]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Masquerade

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to queenofmoriarty for being a fantastic, detail-oriented beta. This project may never have been finished without you.
> 
> Thank you also to thewatsondiaries for awesome feedback, and sherlockdrinkstea for the britpick.

 

 

 

 

* * *

So they dug your grave  
And the masquerade  
Will come calling out  
At the mess you've made

-"Demons," Imagine Dragons

* * *

 

Sherlock awoke to find the other half of his bed empty. He frowned. John must have gotten up without waking him. He had been sleeping much longer than normal for the last few weeks. Perhaps he should experiment to see if it was correlation or causation. 

But that would mean not sleeping with John to make the comparison, so perhaps not.

He heard some noises from the kitchen. John must be making breakfast. He had been extremely focused on making sure that Sherlock was well-fed and rested, ever since… the overdose.

Sherlock showered quickly, put on his robe, and padded out to the kitchen.

John was standing with his back to him, still in his pyjamas and undershirt, scrambling eggs with one hand and sipping tea with the other. The toast was burning. Sherlock leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. 

Apparently unaware, John scratched the back of one calf with his other foot as he continued to cook. His pyjama bottoms were slung low on his hips, exposing some of his skin, and his blond hair held a slight cowlick in the back, which was oddly endearing. 

“It’s pretty creepy, you know, you just standing there and ogling me like that. Verging on voyeuristic,” John said sarcastically, without turning around.  He picked up the pan and divided the eggs onto two plates. “Oh, bugger,” he said, seeing that the toast was burned. 

“It’s not voyeuristic if both parties are consenting participants. But I am rather enjoying the rear view, _incidentally_ ,” Sherlock said, smirking.

John snorted, turning around as he rolled his eyes at Sherlock. He put the eggs on the table, then grabbed two more pieces of bread. 

“Sit down. You are eating something, and I don’twant to hear any protests,” he said, popping the bread into the toaster.  Sherlock took advantage of his distraction to walk over quietly,

By the time John turned around again, Sherlock was directly in front of him. He leaned down until his mouth was next to John’s ear. “Don’t roll your eyes at me, Dr. Watson. It’s rude,” he said quietly, and John shivered.

Sherlock leaned even further to kiss the nape of his neck, inhaling John’s scent, which still held the undercurrent of sex. 

“You roll your eyes all the time,” John breathed, his eyes half lidded.  

Smiling, Sherlock placed his hands on the counter on both sides of John, immobilizing him. He continued to lightly kiss up John’s throat.

“The-- the eggs are getting cold,” John said a bit breathlessly.  

“Mmmm,” Sherlock said, finally coming level with John’s mouth, their lips not quite touching. He paused, allowing the electricity between them to build. John stared up at Sherlock, his pupils starting to dilate, almost obscuring his cornflower blue irises. 

Finally, Sherlock leaned forward, letting their lips brush, ever so slightly. “You’re driving me insane,” John whispered. His hands started to meander through the folds of Sherlock’s robe. 

“Well that’s rather the point,” Sherlock murmured, his lips still just barely touching John’s.

“If you keep this up, I might have to bend you over and have you right here, on that table,” John said, his eyes still half-closed.

“Until I beg for mercy? Twice?” Sherlock said, mouth twitching. John stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. Sherlock smirked.

“I think that can be arranged,” John said, still laughing. 

The moment broken, John ducked under Sherlock’s arm and grabbed the toast, putting it on their plates.  

“We don’t have time for any shenanigans right now, anyway,” he said, all business. “We need to eat and get ready. You can’t be late.” He walked back over to pour them both tea.

“ _Shenanigans_?” Sherlock said bemusedly, sitting down at the table. 

“Oh, shut up, Sherlock,” John said, kissing him briefly as he set the cups in front of each of their places and sat down. Sherlock felt his face crack into what was surely a ridiculous grin. 

 

 

* * *

A little later, John walked down the stairs holding his jacket, having showered and dressed. Sherlock was sitting in his chair reading the newspaper, immaculately dressed as usual.

“We don’t have long. We had better get a move on,” John said distractedly, looking around the room. Without looking up, Sherlock pointed over to the skull, over which his tie was draped rather rakishly.

John rolled his eyes and grabbed it, walking briskly over to the mirror. He fixed the tie and shrugged on the jacket as Sherlock had walked over to a point where he could see John’s reflection. He buttoned his jacket, his eyes raking over John. 

 _You’d better stop eyeing me like that or we will_ never _get out of here_ , John thought deliberately. Sherlock smirked, reading his thoughts.

Once he was done, he turned and strode over to Sherlock, pulling his head down and kissing him deeply. 

“Shall we?” he said, finally, breaking away. Sherlock nodded, his face turning from beatific to serious instantly, then he turned and and strode out of the room. John sighed, and followed Sherlock down the stairs.

“Ready?” John said, pausing at the door.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, and John opened the door, bracing himself against the flash of the cameras outside.

They shouldered their way through the press, Sherlock keeping his face a cold mask and completely refusing to answer any questions. John deflected the more aggressive questions with "no comment at this time." At last, they made it into the police car, Sherlock sliding in before him.

John felt the apprehension rising in his throat as the car sped away from Baker Street. No matter how much John saw of the other side of Sherlock- the affectionate, warm (what John considered to be “his”) Sherlock, it was only when they were alone. To the rest of the world, nothing had changed. Sherlock’s mannerisms with everyone else were still of casual indifference, haughtiness, and cold calculation. He had slipped back into that guise, the moment they had left the flat.

He watched Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. Today was essential. Sherlock must see that. In order to put Moriarty away once and for all, to let them both rest at ease. Sherlock couldn’t be so… _Sherlock_ if that were going to be accomplished.  

John took a breath. “Remember--” he started.

“Yes,” Sherlock interrupted.

“Remember--” John tried again, and Sherlock said “yes,” even more quickly.

_Will you let me finish._

He tried once more, speaking quickly. “Remember what they told you-- don’t try to be clever…” He thought he heard Sherlock mutter “No,” under his breath, but continued, “... and please, just keep it simple and brief.”

“God forbid the star witness at the trial should come across as intelligent,” Sherlock said, still looking out the window.

“ ‘Intelligent’, fine; let’s give ‘smart-arse’ a wide berth,” John replied hotly.

There was a pause. “I’ll just be myself,” Sherlock muttered. 

John was starting to get irritated. “Are you listening to me?” He said angrily. Sherlock didn’t answer.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. John felt the anxiety starting to take hold, realizing that Sherlock might not be able to rein himself in and that he would jeopardize the case. 

John glanced over at the silent Sherlock, sitting close, so close to him. He still felt the imprint of Sherlock’s lips on his... but now, out here in the world, it was like there was a cold draft. Like there really were two completely divergent Sherlocks. 

Neither of them had broached the subject of telling anyone about-- whatever ‘ _this_ ’ was. Sherlock’s fame had reached new heights; he was the “Reichenbach hero,” extremely sought-after, well-regarded. Mycroft had made sure to keep Sherlock’s overdose under wraps, and so far it hadn’t leaked.  The press would have a field day, turn on Sherlock in a second. John didn’t want to add another layer of complication to that. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself. 

When they were alone, the way he looked at John, how they seemed to fit together perfectly in every way, made him forget about all of that. During those times, it was like John was the only thing in Sherlock’s world. 

But he couldn't get rid of the strange uneasiness tugging at him, somewhere deep down. He wondered why the Sherlock from this morning couldn’t step outside 221B, and why Sherlock didn’t want anyone else to know about them. _Is he... ashamed? Is he worried that people will think he is weak? Why can’t I just ask him?_ He already knew the answer: because he was a bloody coward.

John hesitated before he reached over to try and take Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock moved it quickly out of reach, shaking his head succinctly and eyeing the policemen in the front of the car. John tried to keep his expression blank and leaned back again to gaze out the window.

 

* * *

Sherlock saw John wince, moving his hand back and turning away. Sherlock fought the urge to pull John over to him, to kiss the hurt expression off his face. 

Ever since the day when John had handed Sherlock his phone, his eyes wide, saying, “He’s back,” Sherlock had known it was coming. It was always going to come to this. The bank, the jewels-- it was part of Moriarty’s game, but he still didn’t know what that game was. 

And unlike the last great game, he now had one true pressure point:  John.

Moriarty couldn’t know about them, and if anyone knew he would find out. Then he would flick his wrist or bat an eyelash and John would be taken again, used as leverage. Moriarty had seen what they were to each other enough during the great game to strap the last bomb to John, and that was when they were only friends.

John's face was an open book. He would give it away if Sherlock told him why. 

Sherlock glanced over to John. His face was still lined with pain and confusion. _How many times will I have to hurt you when I’m trying to protect you, John?_

 

 

* * *

_A few days later_

 

If he had been more like John, Sherlock would have considered this to be one of the most bizarre situations he could have found himself in: casually drinking tea with his greatest enemy, calmly discussing his imminent demise. Sherlock managed to keep up a detached facade despite the maelstrom of thoughts whirling through his brain.

"But don’t be scared. Falling’s just like flying except there’s a more permanent destination." Moriarty seemed to preen himself like an exotic bird, waiting for the effect of his words to sink in.

Sherlock didn't rise to the bait. "Never liked riddles," he said, standing and buttoning his jacket, signaling that the conversation was at an end.

Moriarty was many things, but rude was not one of them. He stood as well, straightening his own jacket. "Learn to," he said softly, watching Sherlock. "Because I owe you a fall, Sherlock. I ...  _owe_  ... you."

Sherlock waited as Moriarty looked him up and down again before turning and walking out of the flat.

Sherlock walked over to the chair Moriarty had just vacated, picking up the apple by the penknife handle. I.O.U. was carved into the apple’s flesh.

 _Beating a dead horse, aren't we?_  Sherlock thought. Moriarty had repeated the phrase in different variations approximately five times.

Sherlock sat down in his chair, and closed his eyes.

He would try to kill Sherlock. _A fall_ , he'd said... but off what? He wouldn’t simply push Sherlock off a bridge when he wasn’t looking. Moriarty was too theatrical for that. He could have killed Sherlock that day if he had simply wanted him dead.

No, there would be something leading up to it, some poetic twist. Like his great game, leading to the night at the pool.

He always spoke in riddles. _Falling’s just like flying except there is a more permanent destination. I will burn the heart out of you. Every fairytale needs a good old-fashioned villain._

Sherlock heard the sound of the front door opening and closing, followed by the distinct sound of John’s footsteps down the hall and up the stairs.

“Well, so… he hasn’t killed you yet, then.” John’s voice said in a bristly tone. He was obviously annoyed that Sherlock had hung up on him when he called about the verdict. 

Sherlock flicked his eyes open. “Not quite.”

John’s glance fell on the two teacups on the table. “Wait, so he _was_ here?” John strode over, looking furtively around the room, as if Moriarty could be hiding behind the sofa.

“John,” Sherlock said, standing up and towering over him. John glanced up, his face turning to concern. 

“What’s wrong?” He put his hand on Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock closed his eyes, feeling the slight roughness of his fingertips. 

He opened his eyes again, keeping his expression jovial. “It’s nothing I can’t handle, given time. You know how he is, he wants an audience. Offing me in cold blood in my flat wouldn’t be grand enough. No one around to see it.” Sherlock attempted to keep his voice light.

John shook his head uncomprehendingly. “Tell me what he said. We’ll figure it out together.”

Sherlock gazed down at him. _I want to, John. I want to tell you everything. I wish I could, but I can’t. Not until I know what his game is. I refuse to put you in danger._  

 _“Aren’t ordinary people adorable,”_ Moriarty had said. _“But you know, you have John.”_

The vision of his smirk nauseated him, and it felt like the air wasn’t quite reaching his lungs. Moriarty couldn't possibly know about John. Sherlock had been so careful.  

“Sherlock. Tell me what he said," John repeated emphatically.

“Later,” Sherlock lied, forcing a grin. He stepped closer, leaning down slowly to kiss him, savoring the comforting feeling of John’s smaller body pressed against his own.

 

 

* * *

 _What’s going on, Sherlock? Why won’t you tell_ _me_? The words were on the tip of John's tongue.

When John walked in there was a tinge of apprehension in Sherlock's eyes. As he had stared down at John, immersed in thought, the emotion morphed, changing shape-- until it was almost more like… dread. He had never seen that in Sherlock’s eyes before. 

In a split second, like he was flipping a switch, Sherlock had become lighthearted again. It had obviously been deliberate, and it almost scared John more.

Sherlock reached up to put his hand on John’s neck, running his thumb over John’s lips, then leaned down to kiss him, pulling John close. 

John tilted his face up to meet Sherlock’s lips. He wrapped his hands around Sherlock’s narrow hips, pulling him closer. They kissed slowly at first, Sherlock seeking permission with his mouth, his tongue, and John accepting it like a solemn vow. John thought fleetingly that he would never get enough of this. Of him. Not even if they were together for the rest of their lives.

Sherlock started to kiss him more fervidly, running his hands under John’s jacket, and down over his hips. John started to feel the desire pooling deep down, eradicating his questions about Moriarty. Sherlock peeled off John’s jacket, slowly, still caressing John’s lips with his. 

He started moving John back towards the bedroom, not breaking free, as if he couldn’t stand to let John go even momentarily. He loosened John’s tie as they walked, and John started taking off Sherlock’s jacket. They finally reached the door and John kicked it open with his heel as Sherlock shrugged his arms out of the jacket. They were both almost frantic in their movements now. John unbuttoned Sherlock’s shirt, slipping his hands underneath to feel Sherlock’s smooth skin. Sherlock was unbuckling John’s trousers as they fell onto the bed.

There was more visceral need than John had ever felt from Sherlock. It was like he was trying to consume John, feel every part of him, and memorize him simultaneously.  

Once John’s trousers and pants were free, Sherlock pulled them off and threw them away. John pulled Sherlock down, rolling over so that he was on top. He kissed down Sherlock’s chest, all the way down to his waistline, unbuttoning his trousers as he went. He pulled them down, slowly, stopping to kiss and then tongue over the slight dampness on Sherlock's pants. Sherlock shivered, closing his eyes.

John moved the waistband down, slowly, kissing then nipping on Sherlock’s pelvis and inner thighs. Finally, he pulled the pants down far enough that he was able to envelop the top of Sherlock’s erection with his lips, flicking his tongue against it softly. Sherlock moaned. 

“John, John. I need you,” he breathed.

John threw Sherlock’s pants and trousers to the floor, moving back up to kiss him. He skimmed his fingers along Sherlock’s collarbone as their mouths found each other.  Sherlock wrapped his long legs up around John’s hips, so that their cocks were now touching. Sherlock shuddered.

“I’m right here, love,” John said. “I’ll always be here. I promised, remember?” He trailed kisses over Sherlock’s throat, brushing the edge of Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock looked up at him, breathing unevenly. “No. I mean yes, but I meant that I _want_ you.” 

“You mean…”

“Yes.” 

“Are you sure? I know you said you have never been on the… receiving end before,” John said, suddenly nervous. 

In lieu of a response, Sherlock pulled him down into a kiss, nipping John’s lip.

After a moment, John broke away, panting, looking into Sherlock’s eyes. 

“Okay, Sherlock,” John whispered. Sherlock pulled John’s shirt off, kissing him deeply, running his fingernails up John’s back to trace his shoulderblades.

They started rocking back and forth in unison, desperate for more friction. John twisted his hands into Sherlock’s hair for a firmer grip, their open mouths skimming against each other, as their erections slid against each other. Sherlock made a humming sound at the back of his throat.

Sherlock broke free, his eyes dark, pupils blown wide. “Dresser,” he breathed.

John reached over and fumbled the drawer open, grabbing the small bottle. He ignored the stack of condoms (they'd both gotten tested weeks before). Sherlock’s legs were still around his hips, so he shifted backwards slightly. “Feet on the bed,” John ordered gruffly, putting some lube on his first two fingers and massaging them to warm it up. "Hips up."

Sherlock obliged, quirking an eyebrow up as he said, "Yes, _Captain_."

John rolled his eyes and snorted. He shifted slightly, taking a pillow and putting it beneath Sherlock’s hips. He took Sherlock’s right hand with his left, squeezing it tightly.

“Ready?” he said, softly, massaging over Sherlock's opening a bit first. Sherlock nodded closing his eyes.

John started with one finger,  slowly, and Sherlock bit off a small gasp. John swirled the finger around, pulling it out slightly, then pushed it back in, further this time. Sherlock moaned, tightening his hold on John's shoulders.

“You ok?” John asked, apprehensively. 

“No-- yes. It’s… do it again,” Sherlock panted.

John pulled his finger out, then put his two lubed fingers side by side, pushing them in slightly. He could feel Sherlock’s body tightening round them. He massaged them around, then pulled them out, twirling as he went. Sherlock’s hips moved involuntarily around him. John watched his face as he slid them both inward again, further this time-- until he finally reached the prostate.

Sherlock shuddered involuntarily, his head thrown back so far that his long pale neck was exposed. John leaned up to bite the hollow of his throat as he continued to fuck Sherlock with his fingers.

"Fuck, John, now,  _now,"_ Sherlock gasped inarticulately, trembling. 

John massaged his fingers around again for a moment, then sat back on his heels. He took the lube once more and squeezed a generous amount in his own palm, sliking his cock quickly as Sherlock looked up at him ravenously. 

“Ok, this could be easier if you turn over…”

Sherlock was shaking his head. “No, I want to see you.” For a split second, his eyes were achingly vulnerable. 

John’s forehead wrinkled. “I do, too,” he whispered huskily, dipping down to kiss him lightly. “Ok, then, legs up around my hips, now. A little higher.” Sherlock wrapped his long legs around John, crossing them in the back. He suddenly looked unbelievably young.

John couldn't help but lean in to kiss him again. Sherlock’s lips were already reddened and sensitive, and John sucked on his lower lip languorously. He could feel the heat radiating from Sherlock, and his hot breath. 

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he breathed, running his hands up Sherlock’s thighs. Sherlock nodded again, his eyes dark but soft.

John started to push forward, just barely past the ring of muscle, trembling with the effort not to go to far, too fast. Sherlock gasped. 

“Are-- you-- alright?” John said, panting, slightly dizzy. The feeling of Sherlock’s body enveloping him was like a drug rushing his system.

“God, yes,” Sherlock rasped. “More.”

John pushed a little further, then retracted, putting lingering pressure where Sherlock would feel it most. Sherlock moaned again, grasping John’s biceps. John pushed in again, a little deeper, then retracted a little faster.

“Still alright?” he asked again, apprehensively. 

“John. If you ask me that one more time, I’m going to take that lamp and crack it over your skull,” Sherlock huffed between gasps. John snorted.

“Domestic violence,” John quipped, pushing forward into Sherlock once more, halfway of his full length this time. Sherlock’s back arched under him, his fingernails sliding up and gripping into John’s shoulders. 

“Oh, John,” he panted, turning his head to the side, his curls spread against the pillow, eyes half closed.

 _Jesus, you're beautiful_ , John would have said, if he'd had the ability to form a sentence. Sherlock’s pale body was splayed out, unraveled, in front of him. His, only his. He pulled back, then pushed forward, slowly, almost all the way, letting out a moan of his own. 

Sherlock arched again, pulling John toward him, moving his hips upward to meet him in permission. John started to thrust in a slow but steady rhythm, and Sherlock started moving in concert. Sherlock reached up with one hand to grasp his cock at the same time, and started sliding it up and down.

"Let me," John panted, moving one hand up to replace Sherlock's, starting to slide his hand and move his hips in rhythm.

“John, John, please,” Sherlock whimpered, almost plaintively, clutching at him.

“I’m right here. I've got you,” John said, reaching up to grab Sherlock’s free hand, clasping it tightly as he thrust his hips faster. Sherlock moaned, a gorgeous, long, sustained note, which almost made John harder, if that was possible. 

“God, I love you,” John whispered.

“So... close,” Sherlock choked out, almost a sob. John kissed him again, their tongues twisting together. Their rhythm crescendoed until Sherlock gasped, his back arching off the bed, and his body clenched around John’s.

John screamed some undoubtedly very embarrassing things as they both fell over the edge into bliss.

John collapsed onto Sherlock, feeling the aftershocks trembling through both their bodies. 

After a few moments, John eased himself out, causing them both to shudder again. He used one of their undershirts to clean them off, then he kissed Sherlock briefly before laying back.

“Are you okay?” he said softly.

Sherlock kissed John’s shoulder in response, feeling the hair at the nape of John’s neck between his fingers. They gazed at each other for a moment, completely content, as their breathing started to slow. 

After a few minutes, John started to doze off. Sherlock moved closer to him, tucking his head into John's neck. 

Eventually, Sherlock murmured, “Do you believe in fate, John?”

Eyes still closed, John said “Mmmm?” sleepily.

Pause. “Do you think... that everything has its time? Or do you think every man is a free agent?”   

John pulled himself back from the edge of sleep, cracking his eyes open and looking down at Sherlock. Sherlock, however, wasn't looking at him; his eyes were pointed at the wall of the bedroom, but they seemed focused on something far away.

“I never thought you would be the kind of person to think there was anything other than free will,” John murmured in confusion. _Existentialist pillow talk? How very you, Sherlock._

Sherlock still seemed far away. “I would agree, but sometimes-- above and beyond the laws of science-- it feels like the universe sometimes pushes for two opposing forces to clash, infinitely, until there is a resolution. Until one, or both, is negated.”

John didn’t even try to make sense of his cryptic response. He shook his head, sighing. “I don’t know whether there's fate, or some things are meant to be. But I do know one thing. If there is no such thing as fate, and if the universe really is chaos, unfeeling and unrelenting... then I am unbelievably lucky to have found you.”

Sherlock’s eyes visibly came back into focus on John’s, and his gaze softened. He brushed John’s lips with his, before laying back as John encircled him in his arms.  

“I love you,” John murmured.

Sherlock kissed under John's jaw. “Multiplied by the number of grains of sand in the Sahara,” he replied softly. 

“Cor, I never knew you could be so cheesy,” John said, grinning, feeling the low rumble of laughter in Sherlock’s chest.

Later that night, however, John still hadn’t drifted off. The look in Sherlock’s eyes from earlier haunted him. As he watched Sherlock slumber, he couldn’t put the feeling aside that something was horribly, irreversibly wrong.

 

 

* * *

Sherlock woke with a start, sitting straight up in bed. Once he became aware of his surroundings ( _bedroom, Baker Street, John— still asleep_ ), he rested his elbows on his knees, trying to catch his breath. The feeling of vertigo was still lurching in his stomach, and he was covered in cold sweat.

After a few minutes, he lay back again, watching John next to him. He looked so small, almost childlike, in his sleep. The pale blue light of predawn illuminated his skin and pale hair, creating a ghostlike effect. Sherlock’s eyes raked over him possessively: from the star-shaped scar on his exposed shoulder, to his relaxed face, to his half-curled fingers against the pillow. 

After Moriarty had come to the flat that morning, Sherlock had tried keep up a facade that nothing was amiss. But now, when John wasn’t watching, he could feel the inevitability of what was coming. Inexorable, unavoidable. Like the dank onset of autumn fog over the Thames. Over and over again since Moriarty's return he had woken up from nightmares, accompanied by a nameless fear that he couldn’t remember upon waking. Then of course, there was the worst kind— the ones in which he lost John. John, bloodied on the pavement. John with a bomb strapped to his chest.

He detested the fact that Moriarty was able to get under his skin like this. His entire life had been about rationality and utmost control. There was only one factor that was different this time: John.  _He is able to get to me this time because I truly have something to lose. But I can’t let John go. I’m weak._

Moriarty would come back for him. He was waiting behind the curtain, somewhere, watching, probing for weaknesses. Planning.

The Final Problem has to be resolved. Either Moriarty or Sherlock, or both, wouldn’t make it out of this alive. It wasn’t a simple game, a show of wits. Not anymore. It was the end. He might never see John again. It could come to that.

Sherlock watched John slumber, an ache beginning to burn in his chest.

_I’m not afraid of dying. To the well-ordered mind, death is simply the next great adventure. But I’m terrified of losing you, John._

John shifted slightly in his sleep. His forehead wrinkled slightly and he unconsciously reached out toward Sherlock. Sherlock caught John’s outstretched hand with his and leaned down to kiss the tips of each of John’s fingers (his lips curled up slightly in his sleep). Sherlock moved closer, wrapping his leg around John’s. He placed John’s hand on his own waist, and reached out to pull him gently forward. John settled into this new position, his head on Sherlock’s chest and his fingers digging lightly into Sherlock’s hip. 

Sherlock closed his eyes, basking in the feeling of John’s body against his. He leaned down to kiss John’s neck, his lips resting just over the steadily-beating, warm pulse. In rare moments like this with John, his brain wasn’t constantly working, unstoppable as a freight train. He thought and felt in simple terms.   _John. Life. Heart. Warmth._

 _I will burn the heart out of you_ , Moriarty’s voice said, cutting through his thoughts. Sherlock clutched John a little tighter.

_The final problem. It’s going to start very soon, Sherlock: the fall. Don’t be scared._

 

* * *

_A few weeks later_

Sherlock had, once again, forgotten to get milk. He was in one of his sulks on the couch which had been more than a common occurrance lately, and John had had enough of the black moods. He needed to get out of the flat.

John was on his way to Tesco when he had seen the ATM and realized he needed cash. After he had put in his information, the message flashed across the screen:

_Thank you for your patience, John._

_Oh, bugger,_ John thought. Mycroft. It had to be. And of course, a black sleek car had shown up right at that moment. The Holmes men were such drama queens. 

Now he was in the Diogenes club, which was... unsettling, to say the least. He wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible. Biting back the string of profanities he would like to fling at Mycroft, he stood, starting to stride toward the door.

“We both know what’s coming, John,” Mycroft called after him, grimly. John stopped in his tracks, turning back, his rage starting to boil under the surface.

Mycroft continued, “Moriarty is obsessed. He’s sworn to destroy his only rival.”

Trying for all the world to maintain control, John said, “So you want me to watch out for your brother because he won’t accept your help.”

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Mycroft replied grimly, attempting to smile at first, then letting his expression sour.

John declined to reply, starting to leave.

“One more thing, John,” Mycroft called after him. John snorted in exasperation, stopping before he reached the door and turning back.

Mycroft sighed, closing his eyes and steepling his fingers in front of his face. John rolled his eyes. _Is that some kind of genetic trait that all Holmes men are born with?_

Mycroft paused a moment more, then said, “I should have told you this long ago, but everything that happened right afterward gave me pause. It simply didn’t seem relevant, and you had quite a lot to be getting on with.” 

John closed his eyes, clenching his teeth as he spoke. “Dammit Mycroft, if you don’t stop being convoluted and just tell me straight--”

Mycroft stood up, picking up another folder from the side table. “The men who were on your detail the day when you fell into Annie Rosewood’s trap-- men I had personally vouched for--  they didn’t fail in their duties to keep you safe. They were Moriarty’s men.”

John blinked his eyes open as his jaw dropped. “W-what?”

Mycroft set his lips in the grim half-smile, half frown that he seemed to favor. “Yes. It seems that they had been under his tutelage, long ago, and had gone through all the levels to rise to the top levels of MI5. Passed all of our psychological tests, polygraphs, everything, dozens of times. It must have taken years of planning to breed moles under the surface for later use. At the right time, they were activated to serve their purpose, then disposed of.”

He held up photos of two men, glassy-eyed, dumped in an alleyway.

John took the photos, he eyes darting over them. “He had been planning this for _years_?” 

Mycroft shook his head succinctly. “No, not at all. He must have planted these men just in case he would need them for something, at some point in the future. Moriarty is nothing if not thorough.”

John shook his head in disbelief. “But why would Moriarty care about whether I went out to meet Annie? Why would he expend such a valuable resource just for that? It makes no sense. And how exactly did you know it was him?”

Mycroft ignored his question. “That’s not all. It seems that there was a previously-unknown detail about Sam Rosewood’s death. It was a single GSW to the head, but it wasn’t a ricochet from the gunfire in the skirmish. It was a sniper. The posthumous records had been altered somehow.” 

John stared down at the papers that Mycroft was handing him, postmortem reports, in disbelief. “Jesus. But… wait a second. There were no snipers out there that day. I would have known, I would have seen more of those kinds of wounds…” 

Mycroft nodded slightly. “Exactly. Which means?”

John opened his mouth, then closed it. “Which means that it was a targeted hit. They wanted to kill Sam specifically, but make it look like he was just a normal casualty.”

Mycroft nodded once more. “And there was something else. The bullet that was extracted from the body,” Mycroft cleared his throat slightly, as if uncomfortable, “had extremely unusual markings, which match precisely with the bullets a known assassin uses. A man who we know for certain is Moriarty’s second-in-command.'

John’s breath hissed out in fury. “ _Fuck_. Are you serious? Moriarty ordered a hit on _Sam_?”

Mycroft’s lips were set so firmly that they were only a thin line. “Precisely. But one must wonder... why?" 

John ran his hand over his face, unable to believe what he was hearing. “Wait, Mycroft, seriously, how do you know these blokes were Moriarty’s men? Tell me.”

Mycroft frowned deeply, apparently about to refuse. John raised his eyebrows expectantly and crossed his arms, so Mycroft sighed and pulled out one more photograph from the bottom of the pile.  

It was a closeup of two palms, face up, against a pavement background, which he assumed must have been the two men’s hands. 

Carved into them with a knife, one word each, was a simple phrase:  _Get John._

 

 

* * *

_That night_

Sherlock had just solved the case of the kidnapped children, and had stared out the window-- only to see the lights flicker on in the building opposite.Pretending he had seen nothing, he turned to leave.

“Brilliant work you did, finding those kids from just a footprint. It’s really amazing,” Donovan was saying, acid layering her words. 

Sherlock hesitated momentarily, then said, “thank you,” distractedly, and walked away from Donovan’s calculating stare, barely hearing her mutter “unbelievable.” The message in the spray-painted windows across the street was still burned into his retinas. 

 _I.O.U._

It was like a broken record on repeat. I.O.U.

Kidnapped children. Hansel and Gretel. Fairy tales. I.O.U. Breadcrumbs. Good-old fashioned villain. I.O.U a fall. The girl screaming. 

_How does it fit together?_

Sherlock walked down the hallway and downstairs, where John was waiting. “You okay?” he asked, seeing Sherlock’s expression.

“Thinking,” he said in a clipped tone. A cab pulled up. “This is my cab, you get the next one.”

He ignored John’s confused expression. “Why?”  

_Because Moriarty is obviously watching my every move, and the less he sees us together, sees how we react towards each other, the better. Because I still don’t know what he’s doing, but he can tell exactly what I am going to do next. He knew exactly where I was going to be standing so that I could see that message, only me. And because the more I distance myself from you, the less likely he is to use you against me. I hope._

“You might talk,” he said coldly, jumping in the cab and closing the door behind him, leaving John looking slightly stunned on the sidewalk. 

He watched John’s retreating form in the rearview mirror, his thoughts reverting back to what Molly had said in the lab earlier that afternoon. 

 _You look sad when you think he can’t see you_ , she had said, glancing at John.

Sherlock had been concentrating on identifying the substance from the kidnapper’s boot, and his mind had refocused so quickly that he had almost been dizzy. He had lifted his gaze from the microscope, slowly, letting it drift over to John, who was still on the other side of the lab. John was completely unaware of the conversation. Sherlock had felt an iota of relief that John hadn't heard, yet at the same time, anguish flooded his consciousness.

John though this was just another case, another crime to solve. He undoubtdedly believed that Sherlock would solve it, and that he and Moriarty would continue to dance indefinitely, pulling and pushing, wit against wit. John had no idea that Moriarty has deemed this to be the last dance. 

 _I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you,_ Molly had said.

Of course he wasn't okay. He couldn't stand the thought of losing John, but he would never let John see. It would destroy him if he knew where this is all heading. 

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. There was only one way to keep John safe. Hurt him again. Distance himself. It was the hardest thing he had ever done the first time, and now he had to do it again.  

But he had to make it real. John had to be truly hurt for it to work.

He shook his head. _Can’t think about that now. Concentrate. What is the game?_

The Hansel and Gretel story, poisoned candy. It’s like the fairy tale; it needs a villain. The girl’s screams flooded his brain. _She had genuine terror when she saw my face. What is Moriarty playing at? It’s almost as if…_

The TV screen in front of him flipped on, jolting him out of his reverie.  “Can you turn that off, please?” Sherlock asked, annoyed.

The jewelry infomercial flickered slightly, and there was a flash of a face.

Moriarty’s face.

 

 

* * *

John stared out the window, watching, waiting. Lestrade had just come to try and bring Sherlock to New Scotland Yard under suspicion of kidnapping.

"Moriarty is playing with your mind too," Sherlock said angrily. "Can't you see what's going on?" he slammed his hand onto the table in frustration.

John watched him again for a moment, then looked back out the window. “No, I know you are for real,” John murmured. 

“A hundred percent?” There was that slight tone of apprehension in his voice-- one which no one would have noticed but John.

John turned back towards him. Sherlock’s eyes were tinged with fear, now. Fear of Moriarty? Or fear that John didn't believe in him?

“Well, nobody could fake being such an annoying dick _all_ the time,” he replied sarcastically. Sherlock’s mouth twitched. John frowned.  _You don’t actually think I would stop believing in you, do you Sherlock?_  

John looked back out the window. “I love you,” he said quietly after a moment. “No matter what. I would never stop believing in you.” He could see Sherlock out of the corner of his eye.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked around the apartment furtively, then back to John’s face. _There’s no one here, Sherlock. You disabled the cameras, no one can hear me. What exactly are you afraid of?_

Sherlock shook his head, focusing back on the screen. John had to fight every synapse of his body that was screaming at him to pull Sherlock into an embrace, or to punch him. Anything to make him snap out of this. Instead he focused his eyes back on the darkened street. He watched the black shadows of people passing by. They were all faceless, non-personified, like grim harbingers of the future. He shivered. 

Moriarty had been one step ahead of Sherlock this whole time, and yet he couldn't seem to stop him.

Mycroft’s warnings from that morning rose to John's mind, and accordingly the dread begin to build in his throat. 

“Sherlock… there’s something else. I forgot to tell you about it this morning. It didn’t seem important when we found out about the kidnapped children…” John shook his head, thinking about the girl’s screams when she had seen Sherlock in Scotland Yard.

He cleared his throat and went on. “According to Mycroft, Moriarty ordered a sniper hit on Sam. The bullet was engraved with markings that are only used by his right-hand man, or... something.  And it was Moriarty’s men who ‘failed’ to protect me the day I went to see Annie. I don’t know what it all means, but I’m sure you do.”  

John turned toward Sherlock in order to see his reaction. Sherlock’s eyes flicked upward in horror, and John could see his mind starting to spin.

“No. It couldn’t be…” Sherlock said, standing and ruffling his hair with his hands. He paced back and forth several times before finally collapsing back in his armchair. He seemed to be trying to contort his face into an essence of calm but not quite managing it; John could see the myriad thoughts and emotions flitting across his eyes. 

Suddenly, John couldn’t stop himself anymore. He paced over to Sherlock, turning his face with his hands and dipping down to smash his lips against Sherlock’s.

John forced Sherlock’s lips apart, letting himself emote all the foreboding he had been feeling for days, weeks, months. John’s whole body ached to touch him, to feel him. He wanted to find the reassurance he always found in the angular body, to let Sherlock find release in his. 

It took him a moment to realize... that Sherlock wasn’t responding. 

John simply kissed Sherlock more ardently, hardly feeling the sudden vice-like grip on his wrists. Sherlock pulled his hands down as he leaned back.

John opened his eyes. The sight of the dearth of emotion in Sherlock's eyes, the darkness staring back at him, made his stomach drop out.  Sherlock's cold mask had returned.

John swallowed loudly before forcing out the words. "What’s going on, Sherlock? Why won’t you tell me?"

"Stop being childish. Get a hold of yourself, John."  

John stepped backward. "Fine. You want to push me away, push away everything that we are, everything that we have been, I don’t know how to stop you right now. I’ll figure out a way to break through to you again. I have done it before."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow dispassionately. _Do as you will._

Unable to look at him anymore, John turned on his heel and headed for the stairs to his room, trying to keep his composure. 

His phone began to ring. He looked down at the caller ID: Lestrade.

John wiped his eyes and answered the phone, attempting to keep the wavering tone out of his voice. “Greg,” he said gruffly. He entered his room, walking over to sit on the bed. He hardly came up here anymore except for clothes, so the duvet was covered with a thin layer of dust. He ran his fingers over it.

“John, they are coming for him. Now. They are coming to arrest him. They’re bloody pissed,” Lestrade said in a hushed tone, obviously not wanting anyone to hear him.

“Shit,” John swore, pinching the bridge of his nose. _I can’t lose him, not again. If we are separated, I might never get him back. He’s already on the fucking edge._

Lestrade sighed. “I know. Donovan and Anderson are convinced-- and they have convinced the chief inspector-- that Sherlock kidnapped those kids just so that he could solve it and impress us. At least in this case, if not others.”

John snorted. “You don’t actually _believe_ it, do you?” Silence. “Greg?” his voice cracked slightly as he stood and started making his way back downstairs. 

“I don’t know what to think anymore,” Lestrade answered, tiredly. John ground his teeth, his rage starting to boil.

"You know him, Greg. You know he’s real. No one could fake being Sherlock Holmes."

Neither of them spoke for a moment. 

“Needless to say, this phone call is to remain between us,” Lestrade said, finally, deflating the silence. “They won’t be long.”

“Thank you for the call,” John said through gritted teeth as he hung up and walked back into the living room to warn Sherlock.

 

 

* * *

John and Sherlock hurried out of Kitty’s flat, Moriarty disappearing in front of them. John was clutching the soon-to-be-published story in his hands. Sherlock paced, looking up and down the street.  _He was right in my grasp. And I let him escape._

Richard Brooks. An “actor” Sherlock had allegedly “hired” to play Moriarty. He had been sewing himself an escape parachute this whole time. Making Sherlock the villain, starting with (somehow) causing the girl to scream when she saw Sherlock's face. He must have found someone who looked exactly like Sherlock to act as the kidnapper. Leaving breadcrumbs, creating doubt. Then for the coup d'etat, feeding the lie to the press. He used Sherlock's real life as a backdrop, so no one would question it.

Sherlock clenched his teeth in frustration. “He’s been sowing doubt into people’s minds for the last twenty-four hours. There’s only one thing he needs to do to complete his game, and that’s to--” 

Sherlock stopped mid-sentence, his back to John. His mind whirled. _I.O.U. a fall. He wasn’t just talking about a physical fall. He was talking about my reputation. Smearing my name._  

I.O.U. a fall. From grace.

But that’s not all. The only thing that completed the story was for Sherlock die, disgraced-- but not be murdered. No. It would cause too much public empathy. That wouldn’t round out the story. 

He would make it of Sherlock's own volition. Then no one would question it. He could just see the headlines: fallen hero exposed as fraud; commits suicide in disgrace. It was the perfect ending. 

There was only one way.

And there was only one person who could help.

Sherlock could feel John’s concern and confusion from behind him.

“Something I need to do,” Sherlock said, his back still to John. _  
_

“What? Can I help?”

“No. On my own.” Sherlock paced away without looking at him.  Once he was out of sight, he took out his phone and started to type furiously.

He caught a cab to St. Barts, texting the entire way. The plan had to be put in place quickly, or it wouldn't work.

Once he arrived, he skirted around the building, using the alleyway to the back entrance so he wouldn't run into anyone. Quietly, carefully, he broke into the lab- using one of Molly's old IDs she believed she had lost. 

Then he waited in the darkness.

Finally, Molly emerged, shutting off the lights and starting to walk out of the lab.

"You were wrong, you know," he said from the shadows. Molly gasped slightly, turning and seeing him.

"You do count," he continued. "You've always counted. And I've always trusted you." He turned towards her. "But you were right. I'm not okay." He tried to ignore the way his voice felt thick, his throat closing slightly.

"Tell me what's wrong," she said, seemingly unfazed. Sherlock almost smiled. He was, once again, quickly reevaluating Molly Hooper. She was not everything she seemed.

“Molly, I think I am going to die,” Sherlock said evenly.

“What do you need?” Molly said without hesitation. Sherlock continued to walk towards her across the darkened room. 

“You,” Sherlock replied. He hesitated for a moment, then said, “I need you to help me die.” 

“I-I don’t understand,” she stuttered. 

Sherlock crossed the remaining distance between them, putting his hand on her shoulder. _  
_

“Moriarty is going to make me kill myself. Soon. I need him to think I succeeded.”

Her eyes widened, her face turning to shock. “ _What_?”

“He has given me ample notice that he will make me fall-- jump-- off a roof, at some point tomorrow, most likely. That’s his greatest weakness: he loves to taunt, to show how clever he is. The frailty of genius is that it needs an audience. And I’m his greatest ‘audience’ of all.” 

Molly started pacing back and forth, wringing her hands. “I knew it, I knew something was wrong… why haven’t you told John?”

Sherlock leaned against the counter, ignoring her question. “There is only one way I can survive. I am going to choose when and where it happens. I will tell him to meet me on the roof, here. If I have to go through with it, which hopefully I won’t, you will have to orchestrate what happens on the ground.”

She stopped in her tracks and looked at him. “You are going to jump off the _roof_ of St. Bart’s? How would you ever be able to survive that?”

Sherlock waved a hand as if this were inconsequential. “I already have my homeless network preparing a removable landing site; they will take it away as soon as I land safely. They will also act as the ‘bystanders’ and ‘medics,’ so no one can get too close and see I’m alive. There is a shorter building in front, which will obscure the view.”

Molly’s anxiety was starting to heighten. “But… what can I do?”

He smiled at her, which made her avert her eyes, blushing slightly. “I need you to find a cadaver. There should be one with almost my exact features and height already in the morgue. It will be the ‘decoy’ body that actually hits the ground.”

Molly's forehead furrowed, then she was nodding. “I have a John Doe who was just brought in, actually almost exactly the same build as you. I'll have to see his face though... but why is there a body that looks like you?”

Sherlock waved his hand. "Unimportant."

"Right... ok." She started pacing again, her mind obviously racing over details. 

Sherlock closed his eyes, briefly, then reopened them. “And one more thing. I am sorry to ask this of you, but I have no other choice. You are going to have to get to me first, once I am brought into the hospital. You have to make sure that you are the one to take my vitals, no one else, or the whole plan will fall apart. I’m going to put a squash ball under my armpit to make it seem like I have no pulse, just in case John gets close enough to take it.  That’s why you will have to make sure and get to me first once I'm brought in. And then… you will have to declare me dead. John, Lestrade, the police. You'll have to look them in the eyes and lie.”

Molly stopped short. She turned slowly to look at him, horrified. “So, you haven’t told John.” 

Sherlock shook his head, clutching the side of the counter tightly. If Molly noticed the slight crack in his armor, she didn’t let on. “No, Molly, John cannot know. He has to believe it. That’s essential. Moriarty’s men have been watching him for longer than I care to think about. If we-- if I-- am to survive this, to be able to see him ever again, he can’t know. His reaction must be genuine, so that they believe I'm really dead. I'll set up a diversion… something that will draw him away. Possibly some kind of fake emergency. When I jump, I'll make sure he sees it from a certain angle. Then another member of the homeless network will knock him over, long enough for me to switch with the cadaver on the ground.”

Molly closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around herself. Sherlock walked back over to her, and rested his hand on her elbow, pulling her chin up with the other hand so that she was looking at him. 

“I meant it, Molly,” he said softly. “I have always trusted you. And you are the one person who can help me. Please, will you do this for me?”

Slowly, a tear escaped the corner of her eye, making a track down her cheek.  She nodded.

 

 

* * *

By the time John returned to him at the lab, almost everything was in place. Sherlock was sitting with his back against the labtop, bouncing the squash ball with increasing agression. It was time. He had planted the seeds back at Baker Street, but it was time to push John away for good.

John thought he was still completely focused on Moriarty's key code, and Sherlock kept up the facade. 

After a few minutes, by simply tapping his fingers absently on the table, John gave Sherlock the final clue. The key was a code. A binary code.

Sherlock took out his phone and composed a text.

 

_Come and play._   
_Bart’s Hospital rooftop._   
_-SH_

_P.S. Got something of yours you might want back._

 

Sherlock put the phone back in his jacket. It was almost time. Now that he knew where the code was hidden (in his own brain) there was only one thing left to do. 

John paced back, obviously frustrated, completely unaware of Sherlock’s revelations.

“I can’t believe things have gotten this far,” John said, running his hand over his hair. “I just don’t understand.”

“You usually don’t,” Sherlock snapped coldly.

John stared at him, trying to read him. Sherlock kept his face wiped of emotion.

"Don't do that, Sherlock. Don’t shut me out. Not now."

John walked over and put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock shrugged it off and turned away.

“Why are you...?” John said, starting to walk after Sherlock. He stopped, running his hand over his face. “No one is here, no one can see us. If that’s what you are worried about.” 

“This isn’t the time or place, John,” Sherlock said. “Not when so much is at stake.”

“Fine, fine. I just don’t-- it’s just, for the past few days, you have been so… I know you are distracted with the case, and Moriarty, but...” he trailed off.

Sherlock kept his back to John. This was a perfect opportunity. If John thought there was nothing left of them, he would leave. He would fall for the decoy and run back to Baker Street for Mrs. Hudson. He would be where Sherlock wanted him to be… if it came to that.

And if Moriarty was watching their movements, he would be able to see from body language that he and John weren't together anymore. Maybe he would leave John out of it. It’s worth the chance to lie.

But this wasn’t just any lie, this was _the_ lie. He closed his eyes, attempting to quash the rising nausea. _It will be worth it in the end._ _It has to be. I can put aside my emotions long enough to do this for him._

Sherlock straightened his back, preparing himself. He turned around, keeping his face cold and uncaring. John flinched slightly, seeing his expression.

“I hadn’t planned on doing this now, John, but yes. I am coming to the realization that whatever ‘ _this_ ’ is, it’s not something that I should be focusing my mental and physical faculties on. Sentiment truly is a disadvantage. Moriarty and other enemies see it as a weakness. I used to see that clearly, once. After the past two days of being one step behind Moriarty at every turn, I remembered why I have always divorced myself from emotions. I let myself become far too vulnerable and I fell prey to weakness. I don’t intend to perpetuate the mistake.”

John just stared at him. “ _What?_ Are… you serious?” Despair was starting to invade his expression.

Though he had orchestrated this, Sherlock still felt his breath punched from his chest. _After everything we have been through, you believe the lie so easily, John?_

He lifted his chin, narrowing his eyes. “Of course I’m serious. It was an interesting experiment while it lasted. We should remain friends, colleagues. But I won’t expose my jugular to the enemy by being so weak as to love. It has distracted me, taken my mind away from the game. Love is a dangerous disadvantage. Thank you for the final proof.”

John’s face was tormented, his lower lip trembling. Sherlock maintained his composure, but just barely.

John set his jaw, shaking his head. “No. Not after… everything. Love isn't something you can cut off like a limb when it’s no longer _convenient,_ Sherlock," he said quietly, his fists clenched at his sides. 

He sniffed indifferently, shrugging."I have already deleted all of it. Freed up quite a lot of mental capacity, like freeing up space on a hard drive. I'll be able to think much more quickly and effectively now." Sherlock let his gaze drop. He couldn't stand to look into John's eyes anymore.

"You-- you _what?_ You _deleted_... us? You said you could never do that. I don't believe this. I don't believe you."

“Learn to,” Sherlock said, turning around again. “Let’s just keep this professional. At least until this case is over.” 

Sherlock could hear John take a couple of steps toward him, then he halted. His footsteps turned and paced the length of the lab. _Leaving?_ Something raw and sharp-edged tugged at Sherlock’s stomach.

The footsteps slowed then stopped. Chair scraping against the floor. John must have sat down at one of the lab benches at the far end. 

Sherlock turned slightly, looking out of the corner of his eye. John was sitting with his elbows resting on the counter and holding his face in his hands. If Sherlock focused his eyes enough, he could see the infinitesimal trembling of his frame.

Sherlock tried to stop a noise at the back of his throat. _Even after all I just said, you won’t leave me._

_I love you, John. I’m doing this for us. So that we have a chance._

He turned his back on John again, composing another text, this time to Mycroft. 

 _Everything ready? -SH_  
 _Yes. Are you sure about this? -MH_  

Sherlock glanced back over his shoulder at John’s trembling form. He didn’t answer the question.

_Have the diversion call John in a couple of hours. -SH_

 

 

* * *

Moriarty's body behind him, Sherlock stepped up on the ledge, looking down, as his homeless network busied themselves below to put everything in place. 

Over the emergency bay, he could see a taxi pull up. It was John. Right on schedule.

Despite the trembling in his fingers, Sherlock took out his phone and dialed John.

"Hello?"

"John."

"Hey Sherlock, are you ok?" John must have realized that something was amiss once he had seen Mrs. Hudson alive and well. He was already trotting along the side of the building. 

"Turn around and walk back the way you came now," Sherlock pressed.

"No, I'm coming in--"

He was getting too close. Sherlock started to feel frantic. " _Just_ do as I ask, please."

"Where?" John turned and did as he said.

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. "Stop there." He was right in the perfect vantage point now.

"Sherlock?" John was starting to sound nervous.

"Ok, now look up, I'm on the rooftop."

John looked up. "Oh, god," he breathed. The sound of his voice was unbearable. 

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek to steady himself, then he calmly told John that it was all true: that he was fake, and that Moriarty wasn't real.

John wouldn't listen. "Ok shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met, the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?"

"Nobody could be that clever."

"You could," John said without hesitation. Sherlock gasped, barely keeping what could have been a racking sob from leaving his chest. John's love and loyalty was still intact, despite everything he had put him through. This was ten thousand times more difficult than he had thought it would be. Tears were starting to flow down Sherlock's cheeks unabated now. 

Once he was able to speak again, he told John that it was all a trick. A magic trick. 

John was getting angry. He tried to start walking back towards the building, and Sherlock nearly panicked again. "No stay exactly where you are. Don't move."

"Alright." John was deadly calm, now, holding his hand up. Why was he so calm?

Oh. _Oh. He still doesn't think this is going to happen. He still thinks he can talk me down._

Sherlock was trying to keep composure, but he couldn't. It was time. Everything was ready below him. Why was this so... unbearable?

"Keep your eyes fixed on me," he managed to gasp. "Please will you do this for me?"

"Do what?" Sherlock could practically feel John trembling through the phone.

"This phone call. It's my note. What people do, don't they? Leave a note." _John. John. I'm so sorry._

John obviously still couldn't believe his ears. His breathing was elevated as he said, "Leave a note when?" 

Sherlock paused for a moment, closing his eyes. He thought of John’s warm body, sleeping beside him. John laughing at the kitchen table as they drank tea. The tenderness in John’s eyes as he leaned in to kiss him. He called on all of it for strength. 

"Goodbye, John." _I love you._

"No, don't--" Sherlock didn't let him finish, dropping the phone.

He took one last breath, and dove off the roof.

From far away, he could hear John's screams.

 

 

* * *

Unseen, the sniper kept Dr. Watson in his sight as the body of Sherlock Holmes was rolled away. Watson’s entire frame was outlined in shock and grief. It radiated off him in waves. 

Satisfied, the sniper lowered the rifle, pulling it apart and putting it back in his bag, then walking down the stairs without haste.  

He sent identical texts to two different numbers as he was leaving the building:

_Sparrow has landed._   
_Stand down._   
_Await further instruction._   
_-Moran._

 

* * *

John stared at the gurney as it pulled the rag-doll, bloodied body that was once Sherlock into the hospital. The body he had held, cried over, and loved with every inch of his being. It was empty, now. A shell. 

He had felt Sherlock’s wrist before they pulled him away. There was no pulse. 

 _No pulse. No pulse_. It seemed to echo through his mind in a horrifying chorus, his ears ringing.

The world was shredding to pieces around him. He pushed away the remaining bystanders who were trying to steady him, despite the fact that the ground still seemed to be tilting beneath his feet. Sherlock’s last words resounded in his ears.  

_Goodbye, John._

He squeezed his eyes closed, trying to shut it out. 

_You promised, Sherlock._

_That night when you threw away your syringe. You promised me you would never do this. You promised that you would never leave me, not knowingly. You promised._

He opened his eyes again. The smear of bright crimson blood contrasted brilliantly with the harsh grey pavement.

_It was just a magic trick._

_No, Sherlock, no._ John ran around the side of the building where no one could see. He retched, dry heaves, clutching the stones of the wall. His whole body shook, silently.

 _Goodbye, John._  
 _Goodbye, John._  
 _Goodbye, John._  

He beat his fist against the wall until his own blood smeared the stones. He didn’t feel it.

 

 

* * *

Sherlock stared at the linen sheet above his head, trying not to breathe. He was fully obscured from view, but it was better to be safe.  The metal slab beneath him was bitingly cold against his bare skin. He pricked his ears, hearing commotion from the hallway. 

“No. No, please, let me see him, I need to see him. Molly, _please_ …” a disembodied voice begged. _John._ The door of the morgue started to open, then shut again tightly. A muffled, anguished noise. 

“For god’s sake, let the man see his friend one last time.” Lestrade’s voice, louder, slightly strained. _Guilt. Remorse._

Mycroft’s lower tones said something indistinguishable.

“Fuck _off_ , Mycroft! You did this--”

He heard Molly softly say something in response. Mycroft’s deeper tones again, attempting to be placating. 

A growl, and the sound of knuckles cracking against a jaw. 

There was a strangled noise in the background, shuffling, then someone wrestling John to submission. Lestrade’s voice, calming. Silence. Finally, two sets of footsteps echoing down the hallway, steadily fading away. 

The door of the morgue opened slowly.  

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said gruffly. 

Sherlock sat up, rolling his shoulders, trying to release the tension in his muscles from staying so unnaturally still. Mycroft’s face was even more grim than usual, his skin almost sallow. He was massaging his jaw, which was already slightly discolored. Tears were running down Molly’s cheeks. 

“Considering you two, one would think someone had actually died,” Sherlock said tersely. His eyes rested on a sheet-covered body on the slab next to him. "Well, apart from the obvious."

Molly turned around, covering her face with her hands as her shoulders shook.

Mycroft frowned even more deeply. Sherlock sighed, holding the sheet around himself as he got up. He paced over to her, hesitating, then took her hand in both of his and bent down to kiss it with utmost sincerity.  

As he raised his head, he said, “I’m sorry, Molly. I cannot express how grateful I am for what you did today.”  

She turned, slowly, her nose and guilt-ridden eyes reddened and streaming. “It better've been worth it, Sherlock. I will never be able to get the vision of John’s face out of my head. Not for as long as I live.”

Sherlock tilted his chin up slightly. “It was the only way to save him. And Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade.”

She shook her head. “I know. If they knew what you did, what you sacrificed for them... It’s already all over the news, they are saying you were a fraud...” 

Mycroft cleared his throat, walking over to the other slab. “I hate to interrupt, but we don’t have much time. Is this him?” 

Sherlock and Molly both turned towards him. Molly paced over, wiping her face on her sleeve and smearing her eye makeup on the coarse white cloth. “Yes, it’s him. They brought him down from the roof about fifteen minutes ago. GSW, posterior cranial exit wound, fatal.” She paused, shaking her head. “Obviously.” 

She pulled the sheet down to reveal the grey-faced body of Moriarty. The destroyed back of his head was against the slab, covering it from view. There was a slightly acerbic smile on his lips, and his eyes still held the same glass-eyed stare from when he had landed on the roof. Sherlock set his jaw, staring down at him. 

_Here we are, at the end if all things, all of the games.  I survived and you didn't. Yet it doesn't feel like a victory._

_In the end, you still won. You still burned my heart. Did you know? Is this you having the last laugh after all?_

After a few moments, Sherlock said quietly, “What do you intend to do with him?”

Mycroft shrugged. “He will most likely be cremated. Bureaucratic protocol.”

Sherlock couldn’t take his eyes off the maniacal grin. He felt slightly nauseated. His greatest enemy, reduced to ash.

Mycroft finally spoke. “Why did he kill himself? Why did you still jump?” 

“Irrelevant,” Sherlock snapped, turning away as Molly replaced the sheet. He walked back over to his slab, sitting down with his back to them. 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft’s voice held a warning tone. 

Sherlock kept staring straight ahead. “Moriarty had assassins in place. They would only be called off if I jumped. He killed himself so that I couldn’t use him as a way out."

He heard Molly’s breath hiss out behind him. 

In his mind’s eye, he saw John again, far below, so small. Like a toy soldier. _Nobody could be that clever._ The sound of John’s agonized voice on the phone rebounded excruciatingly in his skull. _You could_. Tears started to prick his eyes.

He shook his head, focusing on the floor, wrapping the sheet more tightly around him like a shroud. There was some kind of stain in a strange formation a metre to his left. He stared at it, trying to push the other thoughts from his mind.

“But the computer code--” Mycroft began.

Sherlock laughed bitterly. “It wasn’t real. There is no keycode. There never was. Just another one of his magic tricks. His way of getting my attention."

Mycroft seemed at a loss for words, but Sherlock was too tired to feel gleeful about it. “What… you mean, it was a fake? How did he hack into the secure locations?”

“He simply bribed the guards. No computer code; just corrupt people. _Dull._ ”

Mycroft stood in silence for a moment. Sherlock could practically hear him slowly putting these facts together, starting to understand the whole structure. 

“Molly, would you mind getting me some ice?” he said, finally. Molly’s steps shuffled over to the door and out of the room.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, tilting up his chin again as Mycroft rounded the table to stand in front of him.  

“Sherlock.”

“We only have a few minutes, Mycroft. Do you want to spend them being _boring_?” An errant tear escaped and rolled all the way down to his chin. 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said more firmly. Sherlock made an exasperated noise and opened his eyes. 

Mycroft looked uncomfortable, but now that he had Sherlock’s attention, he said, “I _am_ sorry, Sherlock. I’m sorry that I gave Moriarty the ammunition to do this when I interrogated him. Especially since it turns out that it was all for nothing-- if the computer code wasn’t legitimate.” Mycroft massaged his bruised jaw with one hand.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. John knew about Moriarty. That must be why he punched Mycroft. Sherlock simply lifted his chin even higher, attempting to maintain a facade of haughtiness.  

Mycroft sighed heavily, looking downward at the handle of his umbrella. “I just wanted you to know… that I will look after him. While you are gone. For however long that may be.” 

John’s scream rang through his head again. _No, Sherlock!_ His hand, trembling, feeling Sherlock’s nonexistent pulse. _Oh, Jesus, no. God, no._  

Sherlock tried to focus on the stain on the floor. _Is it blood? Bile? What would stain tile like that?_

Mycroft pulled something out of his jacket. “Here are your papers, passport, new identity. Study the information before you leave, in case you are questioned at any borders. Though you may want to travel unofficially for the time being. I also added an untraceable encrypted satellite phone. I am the only one who has the number. Use it sparingly, all the same.” He held out the packet.  

Sherlock didn’t look up. Mycroft placed it on the table next to him.

“Where will you start?” Mycroft’s feet shifted slightly, trying to bring Sherlock’s gaze back up.

“If I told you, that would rather defeat the purpose of disappearing, wouldn’t it? Though I’m sure you will track me somehow anyway. Do you still have your contacts at Interpol?”

Mycroft sighed, shaking his head, then put his hand in his pocket. “I thought you might also want this. Apparently, the police already have everything they need from it. I told them I wanted it for sentimental value. Surprisingly, they believed me. You can’t use it anymore, of course…” 

Sherlock refocused his gaze. Mycroft was holding out a phone. Sherlock maneuvered one arm out of the sheet, slowly, to take it out of Mycroft’s palm. The phone he had dropped on the roof, right after... 

_Goodbye, John._   
_No, don’t--_

Sherlock couldn’t rein himself in anymore. As much as he hated for Mycroft to see it, he bowed his head, and let the tears start to fall, silently.

Mycroft hesitated, apparently confused about this turn of events, before moving swiftly over to Sherlock’s side. He pulled his brother into the first embrace that either one of them could remember sharing since childhood. 

“You were right. In the end, caring isn’t an advantage,” Sherlock said bitterly after several minutes. “It’s how he beat me." 

“On the contrary. I couldn’t have been more wrong,” Mycroft responded, releasing his brother. “I had no idea how much John could bring out in you. And you in him. From an empirical, outside perspective, there are few people in the world who have what you and John have. I never told you, really, about those two weeks in the hospital. It seemed as though he was determined to follow you into death, if it came to that. And this past two months-- why do you think your career has skyrocketed? I have never seen you so… whole. Complete.” 

“I never thought you would fall prey to _sentiment_ ,” Sherlock replied sardonically. 

“It’s not simply sentiment. It's something more, wouldn’t you say?”

Sherlock sat up, staring him in the face with tear-rimmed eyes. He spoke calmly, with an affectation of control, despite his trembling lip. “I told him, last night, that he was nothing to me, that I thought of him as a weakness, a mistake. I told him that I ‘deleted’ him. Us. I had hoped that being cold towards him, not showing the truth, would make Moriarty less likely to use him against me. But in the end, he did it all the same. He threatened Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, but John was the master stroke. It was almost like he knew, somehow. The day he was released, he said--” suddenly, his mouth snapped shut, and Sherlock stared at his brother with dawning realization. Then rage overbore the grief in his eyes as he sprang up from the table. 

“John’s compromised detail. The day Annie Rosewood went after him. All the way back then, Moriarty was targeting John, trying to probe me for weaknesses to see how I would react. Then on the day he was released, he said, ‘you know, you have _John_.’ He couldn’t have known about John, not without help. I was too careful. There was only one person who knew. _You_. When you told him my life story, in order to get Moriarty to give up intel about the computer code. You told him about John."

Mycroft looked like he was about to speak, but Sherlock interrupted.

"You _destroyed_ us. After all I did to keep it a secret, to keep John safe, hurting him over and over again-- you had already killed us months ago. It was all pointless, because the computer code doesn’t even exist. In exchange, he didn’t just have the ammunition to smear my name. He knew exactly how to get me to jump: threaten John. Because of you. John was the only thing in my life I have ever truly cared about beyond the work. You annihilated us with one word. _Bra-vo_.”  He let his teeth sink into the final syllable, feeling them dig almost painfully into his lip as he spat out the bitter word.

Mycroft said nothing as he stood up. Sherlock closed his eyes. When he reopened them, he let himself fall back into his coldest, darkest self-- the side of him he knew his brother hadn’t seen in two years. He slipped the guise back into place as effortlessly as slipping on a mask.

Mycroft opened his mouth in shock, stepping towards his brother with an outstretched hand, but Sherlock stepped back as if he were wielding a hot brand. 

“No. I don’t want to hear your excuses. _Goodbye_ , Mycroft,” he snapped frostily, grabbing the packet and turning his back.

Mycroft stepped towards his brother, unconsciously. “Sherlock, I am sorry,” he said quietly.

Sherlock gave his brother one last, bitter look, before turning and striding out of the room, never glancing back. 

Mycroft stood completely still, head bowed, the very incarnation of guilt and remorse.

 

 

* * *

John started limping up the stairs to the flat, weaving slightly in his exhaustion. He had spent most of the day at the police station, going through endless rounds of interviews and describing every detail of the past two days. After he was finally released, Lestrade had still been wary of letting him out of his sight. He seemed afraid that John might do something drastic. _As if I could possibly formulate the thoughts to do something drastic_ , he thought bitterly. 

Everyone had been watching him, speaking in hushed tones. They were probably wondering when he was finally going to crack. He didn’t care. His mind kept playing Sherlock’s last moments in a horrifying rerun. He couldn’t seem to be able to halt the onslaught.

Finally, after hours of watching John slumped in a chair and blankly staring at the wall, Lestrade had come over and touched John lightly on the shoulder.   

“John,” he had said softly, as if John might implode if he spoke too loudly. John didn’t alter his gaze. Lestrade’s hand appeared in front of him, holding a cup of tea. 

“What is it, Greg?” John’s voice had grated. Hehad blinked slowly before taking the tea, sipping it gratefully.

“You… can go now, mate. Do you want me to come with you? Or you could come stay with me. I…” his voice had trailed off. John had slowly raised his eyes to look up at Lestrade’s. Lestrade had winced when their eyes met. _I bet I look like hell. Like a dead man walking._  

John had shaken his head. “No. I just want to go home.” Lestrade had nodded, his eyes full of remorse.

Home. If he could still call it that. 

John finally made it to the top of the stairs, shuffling over to the living room. Everything was still the same as they had left it the night before, when they had been arrested. It felt like eons ago.

Sherlock’s laptop was still on the table, open. A teacup sitting on the mantelpiece, tilted over in its saucer. Medical tomes were stacked on John’s chair. The harpoon leaned against the corner. Dozens of pieces of half-opened mail were scattered on the table and floor. All of it was so ordinary in its messiness, as if Sherlock were coming back any second. 

But it wasn't _home_. Not anymore. The core of the place had been hollowed out, leaving the shell. The walls, the structure were there, but there was nothing inside. Only emptiness.  

John walked wearily over, picking up the teacup, about to turn towards the kitchen and put it in the sink. He stared at it in his hands. There was a small chip on one side. He ran his thumb over it. _Sherlock never takes care of his things._

_Took. Took care. Past tense._

John’s mind flashed back to the night before, in the lab. Once again he saw the iciness in Sherlock’s eyes, the absolute indifference to Mrs. Hudson’s suffering.  It couldn’t have been real. Sherlock had fooled John once, the day after he saved him from Annie. But the past two months they had been... happy. He thought… they were happy.

_I let my guard down. I never thought I would have to break through the masked Sherlock again. I had stopped watching for it. How did I not see the signs? How had I not seen this coming?_

Suddenly, he threw the teacup against the fireplace, smashing it to pieces. He gripped the mantel with both hands, screaming inwardly. To an outsider, it would look like he was simply immobile, but it felt like his whole body was being ripped apart. 

_How could you? How could you do this? You selfish bastard._

He stared at the shattered pieces, now buried in the ash. He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the vision of Sherlock's broken body. 

_I believed in you. I loved you. I still do. Why didn’t you tell me? I could have saved you. Just like always._

_We save each other. That’s what we do._

Tears started to fall for the first time that day. He felt like sobbing, tearing at his hair, rendering himself to oblivion by surrendering to his rage. But he remained static, staring at the glinting shards of what remained of his life, and let the waves of agony wash over him.

After several minutes he collapsed onto the floor, his back against his chair. He rested his head against his knees, his whole body shuddering.

_Sherlock, Sherlock. Why?_

He sat there for an indeterminate amount of time, wrapped in his pain, cradling himself in his own arms. He was suddenly completely exhausted.

At some point he must have fallen asleep. 

John woke up hours later, still slumped against the chair, his neck strained. He rubbed it with his hand, sniffing, then stood up and shuffled over to the hallway. Down the hall was Sherlock’s half-open doorway, staring at him like a gaping mouth. After a moment, he limped slowly towards the room.

 _Their_ room. They had been sleeping there together for months now, after all. 

He stopped at the threshold, hesitating, before pushing the door open. It suddenly felt forbidden, like entering a mausoleum.

John glanced over the room from the doorway. It was strange, scrutinizing objects and furniture that one saw every day but had never paid attention to. One bedside lamp didn’t match the other. The dust ruffle was slightly off-kilter. The Regency-style armchair in the corner was really too ornate for Sherlock’s otherwise-spartan furnishings (most likely a gift from Mycroft). Books were piled everywhere: on the shelves, the chair, the bedside tables. 

The sheets were still twisted. They hardly ever made the bed-- that is, unless John did it. Sherlock considered it pointless. 

There was a stain on the sheet from when Sherlock had brought John breakfast in bed one morning, weeks ago. He had left it next to John while he was still sleeping, then proceeded to wake him with a thorough snog. Needless to say, the coffee had spilled.

John shook his head to clear the ghosts. He walked over, kicking off his shoes and shrugging out of his jacket. He was about to get into the bed, but then he stopped and moved around to the other side-- “Sherlock’s” side. He picked up the pillow and raised it to his face, inhaling deeply. Curling into a fetal position, he clutched it to himself, his skin aching with the memory of Sherlock’s body against his.

Hours later, though it could have been days, John woke with a start, wondering why he was on Sherlock’s side of the bed. Then he remembered, and he squeezed his eyes shut again, trying to push the memory back into oblivion by sheer will, until he drifted off again.

The midday light woke John for a second time. In a haze, he made himself rise and wander back into the living room. There were sounds of life, of laughter, filtering through the open window. He walked over and slammed it closed. 

John glanced around the flat, not sure what to do next. Eventually, he found himself sitting in his chair, bare feet curled towards each other against the carpet, staring at the empty chair across from him. He listened to the silence. To the vacuum Sherlock left behind.

He didn’t eat or leave the flat. Ignored the dozens of phone calls and texts buzzing his phone. He just sat endlessly, watching the day pass through the window.

The afternoon trailed off into dusk, then the darkness of night filled the windows. Whispering phantoms of the past rose before him: Sherlock, chasing Mycroft out of the room while playing “God save the Queen.” The two of them, that night when Sherlock threw away the syringe. Sherlock jumping in glee about the serial murderer cabbie-- John’s first case-- so long ago. The first day they met. 

The bleak hours of the night crawled on. He didn’t sleep. He had slept for so long before, but now he couldn't seem to manage it.

He kept going over the details of the last days in his mind. Sherlock’s coldness. His secrecy. How he pushed John away. _Most people would consider that to be a manifestation of suicidal behavior. But I know-- knew-- you better than that._  

It couldn’t have been so simple. Moriarty had threatened him, made him jump somehow. _But then why had he shot himself, once he was victorious? Or, if he had done it while you were still alive, why did you jump?_

What Mycroft had said after Sherlock's overdose kept running through his mind. It felt like a thousand years ago. _“I have never known my brother to care so much for a single person, John. If what I have seen and heard is any indication, and I believe that it is, you are the one person that Sherlock would do anything for. He would probably even die for you.”_  

Then the words Sherlock had said in the lab: _“I have let myself fall prey to weakness. I don’t intend to perpetuate the mistake.”_

After all that had happened, it made no sense. It was too much like his martyrdom, his affected indifference, before the overdose. What if he was sacrificing himself, again, somehow? Did he somehow think, in a perverse way, that if he cast John aside, his death would be less painful?

_Could I have brought him back to me, the way I did before, if he hadn’t…?_

_I’ll never know._  

Slowly, the dawn light started to filter into the flat. John watched it with bleary eyes. It was somehow bleaker than the silent darkness of night had been. _The dawning of a new world in which Sherlock doesn’t exist._

That was the first day in two years, since before he had met Sherlock, that John wished he no longer existed either.

 

 

* * *

John lay on the sofa in Lestrade’s living room, no closer to sleep than he had been hours ago. He hadn’t slept since that first night. He had asked Lestrade if he could stay with him, unable to stand the sight of the empty rooms in 221B. Not that it seemed to be making any difference. 

He stared up at the darkened, alien ceiling. Shadows of tree branches blowing in the wind slid across the ceiling like raking fingers. He heard voices, indeterminate whisperings, in his head or outside. It was hard to tell. 

Nothing seemed real anymore. 

He leaned down and picked up his phone, rubbing his eyes. After a moment’s hesitation, he clicked on Sherlock’s name, running his thumb over the lighted screen. He paused, then opened the composition box and started typing a text. 

 

_Sherlock._

_I know you're gone._  
 _I know this is pointless._  
 _I don’t care._  
  
 _My therapist told me to say the things_  
 _I wanted to say but didn’t._  
 _I couldn’t say them to her._  
 _Or even at your grave._  
 _I kept your secret._  
 _I still don’t understand why you_  
 _didn’t want anyone to know about us._  

_But there was only one thing_   
_I should have said._

_The one thing I should have_  
 _told you on the phone when_  
 _you were about to jump._  
 _I was in too much shock, too frantic.  
_  
 _Maybe I could have stopped you._  
 _Shown you that I still believed in you._  
 _That what you said in the lab didn’t matter,_  
 _and that I knew Moriarty was real._  
 _That you didn’t have to do this._  

_I would have said that I still love you._   
_Always._   
_Forever._

_As infinitely as all the grains of sand_   
_in all the deserts of the world._   
_Magnified by the number of atoms_   
_in the entire universe._

_I would have said all of it, any of it, more._   
_Maybe I could have brought you back to me,_   
_like I did that day in the hospital._

_But I never got a chance._

_Please._   
_Just for me._   
_One more miracle._   
_Come back to me._

_I love you._   
_-John_

 

John stared down at the phone in his trembling hands. _Jesus. I’m losing it._ This is probably not what the therapist had in mind.  

 _But then again, it’s all I have._ He stared at the text a moment longer, then pressed send. He put the phone down on the sofa next to him, resting his elbows on his knees and raking his scalp with his fingernails.

 

 

* * *

Sherlock leaned against the side of a building, keeping himself in shadow. He put a cigarette in his mouth, lit it, and took a long drag. John wouldn’t like that he had started up again. But it helped him go longer without food, be able to trail his targets longer, and stay alert. He watched the restaurant in front of him, which divulged no signs of life, while his thoughts wandered.

_Moran. Why would Moran target Sam Rosewood, long before John and I had ever met? It was before John had even come back from Afghanistan. It can’t have been about us._

He took another drag, then tilted his head back to exhale the smoke in a swirling cloud above his head. As the wisps melted away, they revealed the star-speckled midnight sky. It reminded him of another night, a lifetime ago.

_Beautiful, isn’t it?_   
_I thought you didn’t care about--?_   
_Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate it._

Sherlock’s phone vibrated. _What now, Mycroft?_ He flicked the ash off the cigarette, pulling the satellite phone out of his pocket with his free hand. There was no notification on the screen. _Curious._  

He felt a vibration again, from his pocket.

Dropping the cigarette, Sherlock squished it to the ground with his foot as he pulled out the other phone. The phone he could no longer use, but had kept for absolutely no practical reason. 

He gaped at the screen. It was a text. 

From John.  

Sherlock clicked on the text in disbelief, but with a modicum of hope. _He can't know. He can't possibly know I'm alive._ As he scrolled down, reading, he started to lean against the building for support.

 _John. After everything I put you through. I never did deserve you._ He read the whole text through, brushing away a tear in frustration, then read it again.

A tall man emerged from the restaurant across from him and started to walk down the dark street, carrying a briefcase. Sherlock stowed the phone in his pocket and followed, staying in the shadows.

As he walked, Sherlock composed a text in his head, one which he could never send.  

_I still love you, John. It was all just a magic trick._   
_I will come back to you. I promise._

 

 

* * *

_June 21, 2011_   
_5:46 pm_

_I was trying to remember_   
_the last time we kissed._   
_I can’t._

_I never thought it was going_   
_to be the last time, did I?_   
_I never thought to memorize it._   
_When, where._

_It must have been that day,_   
_the day of the kidnapping._   
_I probably just kissed you_   
_briefly before leaving that morning._   
_Quick. A motion like checking_   
_your watch. Without thinking._   
_Practically involuntary._

_If I had known it was the last time…_

_I love you._   
_-John_

 

 

* * *

_June 22, 2011_   
_3:35 am_

_I just had a dream._  
 _About you._  

_I remembered._   
_The last time I kissed you was that night._   
_The night before you…_   
_sodding hell, I still can’t actually say it._

_It was right before we were arrested._   
_When you didn’t kiss me back._   
_Your eyes were already dead._

_It’s almost worse than not remembering._

_Even if you stopped loving me_   
_or if you never really did..._   
_I still love you._   
_-John_

 

 

* * *

John stared at the door in front of him, his hand hesitating over the doorbell. He didn't want to go in. He didn't want to talk to her. But she had been calling him, relentlessly, ever since the funeral, until he gave in. 

He sighed, closing his eyes, and pushed the buzzer once, quickly. After only a few seconds, the door sprang open and a pair of arms were engulfing him in a bear hug. He could smell an undercurrent of scotch. _Off the wagon again, then._

After a minute or so, John said into her shoulder, muffled, "Cor, Harry. Harry, let go. I can't breathe.”

"Oh, sorry," she said, releasing him and stepping back, wiping a few tears from her eyes and looking down at him. She was a few inches taller, to John’s eternal chagrin.  

“What have you been doing, lifting weights?” John joked, rubbing his neck.

She simply regarded him with that pitying gaze, the one everyone seemed to have when they looked at him.  He balled his fists, his expression souring quickly. “Well, come in.” She closed the door behind him and led him over to the sofa.  

“Are you hungry? You're so thin.”

“Scotch, eh?” John said, ignoring her question and sitting down. She paused, then sat down in her armchair. “I… um…” She tucked a piece of auburn hair behind her ear, furtively glancing over to the kitchen. _That must be where she’s keeping it._  

“It’s fine, Harry, I’m not here to bust you,” John said tiredly, running his hand over his face. “I have a lot of other things on my mind.” 

“Would you... like some?” Harry asked nervously.

He was about to refuse, but reconsidered after a moment. “Actually, you know what? I bloody well would,” John answered. _Might be the only way I can actually get through this visit._

She got up immediately, returning a few minutes later with a tumbler for him. “Neat, wasn’t it?”

“You remember,” John said, taking the glass.

“I am still your sister, even _if_ you refuse to return my calls,” Harry said, crossing her arms and sitting back in her seat. 

John shook his head tiredly. “Harry, don’t.” _I really don’t have the energy for this right now._

She sighed, then leaned forward. “I’m sorry, John. I know you have been going through a lot for the past couple of weeks.”

“Oh, do you?” John snapped bitterly. It was ridiculous how such a small phrase could set off his vitriol these days. 

She winced. “Okay, I don’t know _exactly_ what you have been going through, but I have been trying…”  She turned her face away. 

John sighed, closing his eyes briefly. “I know, Harry. I haven’t just been avoiding you. I have been avoiding… everyone.” He took a sip of the scotch, enjoying the slight burn in his nostrils. He started to feel more relaxed right away. 

Harry turned back to look at him, with that scrutinizing glance of hers. After a moment, she said,  “Do you believe it? What they are saying about Sherlock? That he was a fake?” 

“No,” John replied immediately, despite the feeling that he was being knifed in the stomach at the mention of his name.  After a pause, clutching his stomach with one hand, he gulped down some more scotch.  Finally he managed to say, “I don’t believe it. Moriarty was real. And nobody seems to be talking about the fact that he shot himself. Why would he do that if he were truly innocent?”

As he spoke, however, Sherlock’s voice started to echo through his brain. _I’m a fake. I invented Moriarty, for my own purposes. It’s a trick. It was just a magic trick._

He squeezed his eyes shut again. _Stop it. Stop it, Sherlock. I don’t believe it._  

When he opened his eyes again, Harry was biting her thumbnail, watching him. She looked as if she wasn’t sure whether to go on.

Finally, she asked, “So… what was he to you, John?” 

He opened his mouth to respond but she talked over him. “No, don’t tell me that he was just your friend. You can put up the charade for the reporters, for the papers, but I can see it in your eyes. He wasn’t _just a friend._ I know you better than that. I won’t tell anyone, whatever you tell me.” 

John leaned back, taking another large gulp of the scotch, finishing it. “More?” Harry said, hopefully. 

“Yes,” John said curtly, and she jumped up to refill the glass.

“So?” She said upon her return, handing it back to him and placing the canter on the table. She looked at him expectantly.

John closed his eyes. _I can’t believe I'm actually thinking about saying this._

 _B_ _ut why not tell her? Sherlock is dead. It doesn’t matter anymore._ He winced. “He... he wasn’t just my friend.”

He opened his eyes,. Harry was eyeing him with anticipation. “Go on,” she encouraged. 

“We were... together. For a few months before it happened. But we never… it was never defined, what we were… exactly.” He took another big swing of the scotch. It was making telling her much more palatable, but it was still infinitely difficult to put it all to words.

“I knew it. I _knew it,_ ” she muttered under her breath, staring at the coffee table. Her bright blue eyes, so like his own, slowly moved up to look at him again. “So... are you gay, then?” 

 _Sigh_. He knew that one was coming, sooner or later. Harry would be thrilled to welcome him into the fold. _She’d probably even throw a bloody parade._ “I-- no. I don’t think it’s men in general. It’s-- it _was_ \-- just him. I… loved him.” Was. Loved. Such simple words, but completely shattering. Simply because they were in the past tense.

Her eyes started to well with tears, spilling over. He couldn’t stand to look at her, so he stared at his feet and drank down the rest of his scotch. A few tears started to drip down onto her beige carpet. When they hit, they splattered into star patterns. Almost like… 

 _Fuck. Does everything have to remind me of him falling? Of his blood splattered on the pavement?_  

“Oh, John. I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

He picked up the canter and poured himself another glass. He took a sip before he spoke further. 

“That’s not all. He broke it off. The night before he...” he couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence. It felt like something was compressing his lungs. _Just like the night I had the panic attack, and Sherlock comforted me, during the Phantom Rings case. When it all began._  

His face must have twisted into a look of intense pain, because Harry got up quickly and came over to sit next to him on the sofa. “What do you mean, he broke it off? I thought you never even defined what ‘it’ was?” 

He shut his eyes, shaking his head. “He told me that I was a weakness. That his enemies would use that to their advantage. I thought, at the time, that he was just trying to protect me again; that I would be able to bring him back to me, once everything with Moriarty was over. I had to fight for him the first time-- he tried to push me away. That's why he overdosed. I was prepared to fight for him again, but I never had the chance.”

“No one knew about you?”

He gulped down more scotch, avoiding Harry’s eyes. “No one except Mycroft. Sherlock was secretive. He didn’t seem to want anyone else to know about us. To the outside world, we were just as we had always been. He never let on in public.” He finally looked up into Harry’s eyes.

“You never even asked him why?” she asked incredulously.

“No. I’m a bloody coward. When we were out in the world, he was so different. But when we were alone…” he couldn’t finish the sentence. His mind flashed to the first time Sherlock had told John he loved him, their foreheads pressed together; to stolen kisses in the hallway leading to the stairs; to sleeping in Sherlock’s arms, feeling his still-beating heart. Harry’s forehead furrowed further.

John shook his head. “After all we went through back in March, he promised me that he would never do this. He said that he would never knowingly put his own life in danger like that again.”

Her eyes widened. “You mean, his overdose was a suicide attempt?”

He shook his head again. His head felt like it was filled with scotch, sloshing back and forth. Everything was starting to go fuzzy around the edges. “No. He assured me it wasn’t. And he told me that he would never try to do… that.” His throat felt like it was closing around his windpipe, but somehow he managed to get out the next words.  

“I guess he was wrong.”

Harry looked at him with that pitying gaze once more, biting her bottom lip. John focused on his glass instead of looking at her. No matter what, everything seemed to cause him pain. _I can’t always seek solace in the bottom of a glass like this. Just this once. I’ll allow myself to drown in scotch this once._

“John,” she ventured softly. “Do you think… that might mean that he was telling the truth? That Moriarty really was his fabrication? Why else would he do it? Why would he break things off with you the night before? He must have known, then. Known what he was going to do.”

John’s eyes snapped up to look at her.

“I told you, he _wasn’t a fraud_ ,” John said, quietly, with barely contained rage. _If there is one thing I know, with every particle of my being, it’s that. Even if I don’t know anymore whether he ever truly loved me._  

She held up her hands in defeat. “Okay, okay. I just thought… maybe, it would make this easier, make it easier for you to... I don't know, move on.” 

John shook his head, taking one last swig. “There is nothing to move on to. It felt like there was never going to be anyone else. I thought it was forever."

 

 

* * *

_July 5, 2011_   
_6:22 pm_

_I moved out of 221B today._  
 _Well, officially, anyway._  
 _I have been staying at Greg’s._  
 _I couldn’t stand to be at Baker Street._  
 _It reminded me too much of you._  

_The only thing I took was your violin._   
_I couldn’t stand to see them give it away_   
_with the rest of your things._

_I moved into a tiny flat in Bexley._   
_It’s cheap, and nothing’s in it._   
_You would hate it._

_I love you._   
_-John_

 

 

* * *

_August 17, 2011_   
_4:21 am_

_My insomnia is getting worse._   
_Might as well text you, since I never sleep._

_You know what?_   
_Sometimes I hate you for what you did._   
_To yourself._   
_To us._   
_You bloody tosser._   
_You really thought there was no way out?_

_My therapist says this is the anger_   
_part of the grieving process talking,_   
_but I don’t care what the_   
_sodding psychological diagnosis is._   
_I wish you could come back just so_   
_I could punch you in the bloody face._

_You promised._   
_You promised that you would never do this._   
_You liar._

_4:38 am_  

_I can’t._   
_Jesus. Sherlock._   
_I can’t do this without you._   
_I can’t breathe._   
_Fuck._

_5:45 am_  

_I still love you._   
_-John_

 

 

* * *

_September 15, 2011_   
_3:14 pm_

_I shouldn’t still be doing this._   
_Texting you._   
_I know it’s not healthy._   
_But I can’t stop._

_Maybe some part of you will hear this._   
_Just like you heard me, somehow,_   
_when you were in your coma._

_I saw a man on the tube_   
_wearing a deerstalker today._   
_\--Not in an ironic way, either._   
_You would have rolled your eyes._   
_I laughed, imagining it._   
_Then I remembered... and I choked on the laughter._   
_I think the poor bloke thought I was insane._   
_I probably am._

_I love you._   
_-John_

 

 

* * *

_December 4, 2011_   
_9:10 pm_

_They started putting up Christmas lights today._   
_I always loved Christmas in London._   
_Now it seems so arbitrary._   
_Buying gifts._   
_Putting things on trees._   
_I couldn’t care less anymore._

_You always forgot about things_  
 _like holidays and birthdays._  
 _Even your own._  
 _I had to remind you._  
 _But you still loved playing_  
 _Christmas carols on the violin._  

_Your playing was the most_   
_beautiful thing I have ever heard._   
_If I wasn’t already in love with you,_   
_seeing you play would have done it._

_I love you._   
_-John_

 

 

* * *

_December 25, 2011_   
_9:32 am_

_Happy Christmas Sherlock._   
_I love you._   
_-John_

 

 

* * *

 _March 30, 2012_  
 _2:34 pm_  

 _One year ago today, you woke up from your coma._  
 _That was the day when I first kissed you._  
 _I realized then that I had always loved you._  
 _I should have known it all along._  
 _Apparently, it was obvious to everyone else._  
 _Probably even you._  

_I love you._   
_-John_

 

 

* * *

_October 8, 2012_   
_6:43 pm_

_I just realised that we only had “this”--_   
_whatever in bloody hell that meant--_   
_for ten weeks._   
_Ten weeks._   
_Such a short amount of time._   
_Blink of an eye._   
_And it’s now been a year and a half since you…_   
_Fell._

_I still miss you every day._  
 _I miss you so much that sometimes_  
 _I feel like there is a giant hole in my chest._  
 _A hole where you-- we-- used to be_.  
 _Like it had been fused to my core._  
 _It’s worse than the bullet I took in Afghanistan._  
 _This never heals._  
 _I love you._  
 _-John_

 

 

* * *

 _January 1, 2013_  
 _12:02 am_  

_Happy New Year._   
_I still love you so bloody much._   
_-John_

 

* * *

John opened the door and walked out onto the roof. It was a clear, bright spring morning in London. Exactly like it was that day, two years ago. 

He walked slowly toward the ledge.  He ignored the bloodstain to the left, which rain and the elements had apparently failed to wash away completely.

Taking a deep breath, John stepped up on the ledge, looking down. _That’s where it was. There. Right down there. That’s where you fell._  

_There’s where I was standing, over past that building. You were standing here. This is where you told me you were a fraud. Where you said goodbye._

_I still don’t understand._ _I don’t think I ever will._

John closed his eyes, feeling the fresh spring air against his face. This was the last spot Sherlock ever took a breath, and where he uttered his last words. 

John took out his phone, and composed one more text. 

  
_Sherlock._

_I don’t want to do this._   
_I wish I could see you,_   
_kiss you, touch you, every day._   
_I do it in my dreams all the time._

_But that's all you are._   
_A dream._   
_A memory._   
_You're gone._

_I can’t keep doing this to myself._   
_If I ever want to have a chance,_   
_I have to let you go._

  
He sighed, closing his eyes briefly, then forced himself to type the rest. 

__  
_I will never be whole without you._   
_My entire being, everything I was,_   
_it was all carved out when you died._   
_But I have to try._   
_Stop ripping the wound raw,_   
_never letting it heal._

_It never did make sense._   
_Me and you._   
_I should have known…_   
_that I loved you more_   
_than you loved me._   
_You were such a strange, wonderful,_   
_brilliant, beautiful genius._   
_I’m just ordinary. I knew that._

_I could never have ripped_   
_myself away from you._   
_but you separated us like we_   
_had been nothing at all._

_So... this is my last text._

_I love you._   
_Forever and always._   
_Goodbye, Sherlock._   
_-John_

 

* * *

Sherlock was standing in the open french window on the top level of an old ruined house, watching the sun rise. The remains of what were once buttercream lace curtains blew around him in greyish tatters. Though it wasn’t particularly cold, he drew his wool coat around him a little tighter, squinting. He despised the beginning of the day. Without fail, it reminded him of waking up next to a warm, slumbering body, of the smells of 221B, and fresh tea. Of everything that was lost to him. It was all a dim memory now, faded like the cracking paint on the walls of the house. He took a drag of his cigarette and flicked the ash downward, watching the embers meld into the decrepit roof tile at his feet.

He felt the distinct feeling of a buzzing phone against his left side. Quickly, he pulled out his old phone, which he still kept charged. Sherlock would never admit it, but he still always felt exhilarated when he received these random texts from John. After two years of being constantly on the run, of never sleeping in the same place twice-- or not sleeping at all-- he sometimes lost his anchor to anything tangible.

Nothing was tethering him back to the life he once had. There was only the endless movement, hunter or hunted, it was hard to tell anymore. Black despair ground through his brain like grit between his teeth. Hazy mornings and bleak nights were his constant reality. 

The texts reminded him what he was fighting for. It didn’t even matter what John said. All that mattered was that Sherlock could see the words, caress them with his mind. Over time, they had become less frequent, which made him cherish each one all the more. 

He clicked the text open with reverence, his eyes darting over the words. After a few moments, the small spark of light in his eyes flickered out, and he started to slide down against the wall. He stared out at the dawn for a moment, then hung his head. John was trying to let him-- let them-- go. It was completely rational. _I still have to find Moran. I have objectives and targets. I can’t go back to John yet. If this is how he will be able to cope, it’s for the best._

_It shouldn’t matter. For my sake. It doesn’t matter._

But for some reason, it did.

 

 

  

 

 

 

END OF PART II


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